


softly tears me to tatters

by notavodkashot



Series: FFXV one shots [11]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: BDSM, Butt Plugs, Edgeplay, F/M, FFXV NSFW Week, M/M, Master/Slave, Multi, Oral Sex, Polyamory, Sounding, Vibrators
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-03-21 04:51:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13733535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notavodkashot/pseuds/notavodkashot
Summary: Cor is nothing if not devoted to serve his King and his Queen. They like to make it interesting, in return.Written for FFXV NSFW Week, day 1 - "Anticipation".





	softly tears me to tatters

**Author's Note:**

> ...yeah, so I. Might have flash decided to do this week after all. I can't resist submissive, wrecked Cor, okay? It's A Thing (never a problem).
> 
> I've also been meaning to write Regis/Cor forever, but then PJ reminded me of the amazingness that is Aulea and just.
> 
> Welp.

* * *

_softly tears me to tatters_

* * *

Cor stands, still as a statue, two steps behind the King's seat. 

He takes his place at eight in the morning, sharp, standing at attention as Regis walks into the hall followed by Clarus and his Council. Cor is not terribly fond of the room, to be honest, too tall to be lit properly, but with walls ornameted in such a way that voices do not echo easily. This is the heart and soul of Lucis, where all decisions that shape its destiny are made, and it is somber and solemn to befit such honor. 

Cor bows to the King as he helps him to his seat, and then shifts to stand half a step to the left, just enough that he can be seen by all men sitting along the long table. The real important part is that he has a clear view of the two men stationed by the doorway, though, one of his own, one of Drautos'. Cor recognizes the stern looking Glaive as Arra, and feels a pang of mild sympathy for Dustin. If it were Ulric or Ostium, at least Dustin would have someone to comiserate with. But Arra looks as stern-faced and unamused as a brooding bandersnatch, so Dustin will have to endure the day on his own. Unless something comes up, at least, though Cor doubts it. It's been quiet, these last few months, he hasn't had to excuse himself from a Council session in many weeks. 

Speaking of enduring, he takes a breath just slightly longer than the rest, as he's faced with his own test of endurance. The hum sounds impossibly loud in his ears, but he knows from experience it gets lost in the shuffling of paper and bombastic declarations, utterly unnoticed. 

Cor notices. 

Breath out. 

Regis fiddles with his phone some more, changing the rhythm of the vibrations, before he settles on a pattern and swipes his phone locked. He places it on the table, and settles in to address business. 

Breath in. 

Cor stares straight ahead, expression carefully bored. 

Breath out. 

* * *

Two hours in, the pace changes abruptly, intensity increasing sharply and forcefully dragging Cor back to his own body, as opposed to his poor attempts to balance his quarter budget in his head. Monica will request it any day now, and he's procrastinated it almost too much. He doesn't make a sound. He wants to, but he doesn't, even if the new pattern shifts the entire thing inside him, drilling into his prostate without mercy. 

Sweat beads on his forehead, and slides quietly down his brow, but that is all. 

Regis' phone sits untouched where he left it on the table, at the beginning of the session, so Cor is left to imagine primly manicured fingers fiddling with the app somewhere in the labyrinth that is the Citadel. Then, just as abruptly, the humming stops and the plug sits back immobile inside him, a heavy, dead weight taunting his frayed nerves. 

Cor remembers the Queen is hosting a soirée in the early evening, so she must be fussing over her wardrobe. She doesn't, to be honest, but the head of staff has ideas and standards, and Cor has always been wise enough to keep himself well away from that crossfire, lest there be no survivors. 

Twelve minutes later, the vibrations start again, changing in intensity entirely at random. A saner man, perhaps, would get Her Majesty a stressball, like the one shaped like a moogle head that Monica keeps in the upper right drawer of her desk and which she brings out every time Cor admits he's forgotten to file something or other. 

But a saner man would not know the sweet torments Cor does and relishes in, so he will have instead to make do with staring straight ahead and discretly chewing on his tongue to keep himself quiet. 

An hour goes by, as Cor imagines the Queen strolling down corridors, overseeing details, phone firmly grasped in one hand and thumb swiping erratically every few mintues. 

An hour, and then the torment relents, for a bit. 

It feels like a lifetime. 

* * *

Regis calls for a recess sometime after noon. His Lords and Ladies grump and mutter, but slowly vacate the room. Cor has not finished his budget review. Clarus comes in followed by a small cluster of servants carrying trays. 

“What do you think?” Regis asks him, finally looking at him, and his face is serene and calm, though he's seen the activity log in his phone, the ups and the downs and the slow drip of Cor's sanity down the walls. 

“Many, many unspeakable things, Your Majesty,” Cor deadpans with a shrug, because it's Clarus and Regis and no one else, that lifts much of the weight in the air. 

“So long as you don't do any of them,” Clarus snorts, taking a sit at Regis' right, and poking at the meal they've been offered with a small frown. “I swear, one of us needs to keep his composure and I fear it might not be me.” 

Cor waits until Regis motions for him to sit, before he goes, calm and collected, and takes the empty chair at his left. He resists the urge to cross his legs under the cover of the wide table, because he knows it won't do him much good in the long run. 

“I make no promises,” Cor tells Clarus, but stares at Regis right in the eye, not defiant, but eager in a way precious few would know to recognize. 

“It's a sad, sad day,” Regis muses, lips twitching and eyes glinting in a way that makes goosebumps crawl from Cor's neck all the way down his spine, and he doesn't shudder only because he knows better. He knows better. Regis smiles at him, teasing, “the day Cor has to be the sensible one.” 

Clarus laughs. From the belly, amused and sincere and warm. Cor takes no offense, smiling thinly in return. 

“I'm always sensible, Your Majesty,” Cor says, and drops his eyes to his plate, though if he's asked the contents in a few hours, he'll draw a blank and stare, for all he dutifully goes through the motions of eating everything. 

Regis snorts. 

Reaches for his phone. 

Cor chews and swallows and very deliberately does not whimper. 

* * *

Regis spends the second half of the session fiddling with his phone. 

Clarus raises his voice fourteen separate times. 

Cor has given up on his budget, as simple math is entirely beyond him at the moment. 

He reminisces instead. 

His lips wrapped loosely around Regis' cock, jaw slack and throat relaxed. His tongue digging out that same taste between Aulea's thighs, fingers carding his hair while his nose got drunk in the sweet smell of her. The feeling of soft sheets, only the best for the royal bed, rolling on his skin as he kept the rhythm of Regis' hips slamming harshly on his own. Thin, delicate fingers, each tipped with decently long, lacquered nails, carving up his soul one swipe at the time. The soft, deceving weight of Aulea's breasts in his hands, guided by the ruthless strength of her own. 

His breathing is even. 

His pulse is a wreck. 

When the meeting ends, adjourned with half the agenda still pending, Cor nods to Clarus as he takes his leave, silently accepting the task of seeing Regis back to his office. The door closes. Cor breathes again, conscious, careful, bracing. 

“You'll be there tonight, of course,” Regis tells him, because they're alone and there's no need to keep the fiction that Cor has a choice. 

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Cor replies and keeps his knees from buckling when Regis reaches out to press a hand between his legs, fingers digging firmly but not cruelly, before he trails it up to the center of his chest. 

Cor sways with the possessiveness of it. 

“Aulea's settled on a dress, at least,” Regis tells him, smiling easily, calmly, and then drags his hand down again, fingers not so much ghosting as staking claim of Cor's cock, half-hard despite his best efforts. Regis reaches for the phone and every muscle in Cor's body trembles, but rather than turn on the plug again, he shows Cor a picture. “See?” 

The Queen, in her chambers, expression wry and nose wrinkled slightly, clad in a lovely black gown sprinkled with light blue accents. 

“She looks gorgeous, Your Majesty.” 

Regis places the phone on the table. Cor knows better to relax, to be startled by the fingers hooking on his belt, tugging closer and down. 

“She got you a new tie,” Regis says, lips twitching in amusement as Cor fumbles with his fly, long past the state to pretend he's not eager. “So you can match.” 

When he fucks Cor's mouth, it is with the unhurried pace of routine. Cor keeps his eyes open and quietly prays the plug will stay still where it is, lest he embarrasses himself terribly by coming all over the King's shoes. Regis likes it when he does, honestly, but maybe not when they've still got a long walk back to the office in their schedule. Cor allows himself one little whine near the end, with Regis' fingers digging into his hair and need nestled like a knot of thorns in his gut as he commands himself to swallow at the expense of everything else, like breathing or thinking or wanting. 

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Cor says almost demurely, licking his lips and carefully folding Regis back into his pants. 

He's not, after all, without manners. 

* * *

He knocks on the Queen's study, after leaving Regis in his office and taking a detour to the bathroom, to stand in a stall and release the scream one pent up whimper at the time, and then resisting temptation to open his pants and see what manner of wreck lives in there. 

He'd allowed himself five breaths, in the silence of the stall, the scent of clorine and fake flowers digging into his nose, and imagined leaning on the closed door, panting into it as he reached back and fuckd himself with the plug still firmly lodged inside him. It's a mean-looking thing, thick and twisted and full of grooves and edges that dig viciously whenever it starts to move. It's not the kind of thing designed to fuck with, but Cor has fucked himself on worse things, feeling less urgent than he does. 

Instead, he stands there, waiting, until he's allowed inside. 

Aulea sits by the window, looking at a tablet and her phone in turns, probably keeping up with the last details. Tonight's party is important in ways Cor has long since given up trying to understand. He suspect Regis has done much the same. She looks up at him, once the door closes, eyes narrowed and pensive, and Cor has no doubt she can see the ghost of her husband lingering in his mouth. It makes her smile. 

“There you go,” she says, motioning for the suit left on the armchair opposite of hers. “Must make sure you look presentable tonight, Marshal.” 

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Cor replies, because what else is there to say, except: “Thank you, Your Majesty.” 

Cor takes a deep breath, deeper than the ones he allowed himself in the council room. There's no point to pretend he can hide his weakness from her. She can smell it like sharks sense blood in water. Sometimes, when he's lost in the daze of them, he entertains the thought that's why she loves him, even, but that's not the kind of thought one's supposed to have about a woman of her station. Cor swallows hard and pulls himself out of his clothes, each movement quick and purposeful and perhaps a little furtive. The door is not locked. There's two Crownsguard soldiers stationed outside. He doesn't want to linger naked any longer than he has to. 

“Come here,” she says, as he finishes folding up his clothes, but before he can start putting on the ones she's chosen for him. 

He swallows hard again, and obeys. 

He always obeys. 

“Regis said you had a long morning,” Aulea tells him, smile borderline kind as he comes to stop before her, naked and trembling, but mercifully not hard. Not yet. “He thinks you've earned a helping hand,” she adds, running a nail up his length, and what he wouldn't give to let go of the moan caged in his throat. “Would you like that?” 

“Yes, Your Majesty,” he says, not sure what she means but certain it's not what he's hoping for. He still wants it, anyway. “If it'll please you.” 

Aulea laughs. Leans in to press her lips to the underside of his cock in a mocking chaste kiss, right along the vein that's been twitching to fill up all day. Cor sways. 

“You always say the sweetest things,” Aulea tells him, pulling back, hair rustling, and reaches to pull something from the small cabinet by her chair. “One day you'll regret that habit.” 

Cor is already regretting it, staring at the familiar sight of an entirely different kind of plug in her hands. 

He doesn't scream when she slides it in, cold metal pressing unrelenting into the small hole of his dick, and instead watches with mute impassiveness as the inches pile on. She slides the ring around the head of his cock, and presses another furtive kiss to it, when she's done. Cor watches dispassionately as his cock swings down, weighted down by the sound, and swallows hard three times before he's confident enough his voice won't break. 

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” 

Aulea smiles and watches him gingerly slide into the formal suit. She tugs him down to do his tie for him, and Cor doesn't whimper when the plug wakes up once more, twisting his insides into another knot. Aulea laughs and takes his hand in hers, places it on the screen of her phone, and stares at him in the eye as she makes him ram up the intensity to bursting point. 

* * *

Cor stays in orbit of the royal couple throughout the night. 

He considers drinking himself into a stupor. Maybe then the weight of his dick – feverishly hot against his thigh – and the weight of the plug – thick and mean and by this point starting to chafe at last – would fade away, a little. 

Instead Aulea asks for a dance when Regis gets whiskered away by his bickering nobles. Cor kisses her hand after the music stops and guides her back to join her husband. 

Cor bows to them as per protocol and gives due consideration to breaking into a dead run for the nearest window. 

He's fairly certain not even he would manage to survive that. 

* * *

Cor kneels on the rug before the bed. 

He's taken off his clothes and carefully folded them before putting them aside. He stares at the intricate headboard, just as he stared at the intricate walls of Regis' council room all day, face slack and relaxed, despite the loud humming of the plug inside him and the feeling of his cock, heavy with the bar inside it, resting thick and desperate on the plush surface of the rug. 

He kneels and waits, while the King and the Queen shift around the room, helping each other out of the regalia of their rank. When they're done, Regis sitting by the edge of the bed and Aulea sprawled gracefully as long as she is, both watching, judging, considering. 

“Cor,” Regis says, voice even, face even, soul itself a plateu of even. 

Aulea wiggles her toes with a sigh. 

“Do you want to come, Marshal?” She asks, teasing and terrible the upheval of everything her husband is and is not. 

Cor forces his dry tongue away from the roof of his mouth. 

“Please, Your Majesty.” 

They smile. 

Cor falls, tumbling gracelessly into adoration. 

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Come hang out on [DW](https://notavodkashot.dreamwidth.org/) or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/notavodkashot), if you'd like.


End file.
